Spoiler warning: The following article contains flash photography and an authentic sense of humour embodied with language which many who have lost touch with reality will find offensive. Furthermore, the risk of triggering bouts of Jeremy Clarkson syndrome for those affected is quite high

Don’t you just love living in Bahrain where Political Correctness has as much presence as a Casper in a bacon factory here. Bahrain is the classic Hotel California; ‘You can check out any time, but you can never leave’. Utterances like; ‘How dare you’ and ‘apologize now’ are as rare as unicorn dung and you are going nowhere with it even if you try. So for the PColics, here’s an apology before you palpitate; ‘Sorry, you are in Bahrain and you love it. Get over it – now’.

It confuses the life out of expatriates of the appeasement generation who have elsewhere collectively dominated not only what we say, but how we must appease, live and act among each other. A particular flare up issue is and always will be the imported and imposed cultures; those who in principle leave their unhappy, often violent homesteads to pursue a better life in the west, but through bloated Political Correctness are allowed to create what they left behind in the new paid for home. ‘No problem’ reads the flyer; just make sure you vote Socialist. Wait! Sit down, take some water, you are having a Jeremy Clarkson reaction already.

Is it ok to carry on now?

So you have arrived on these shores and are initially horrified by the total disregard for sensitivities other than religion but have somehow fallen in love with the place. A conundrum as Radio Bahrain’s Mr. Fisher would put it and Christopher Hitchens a self-proclaimed Marxist, Neo Conservative (no confusion there then) and polemicist – expounded as to how depressed he was. Even he couldn’t fight his own doctrine. Confused he says; ‘Living in a country where you can be told “That’s offensive” as if those two words constitute and argument’.

While Da’esh physically and terminally wipe priceless artefacts off the earth, limp ‘Peeceeuraucrats’ as far afield as Alaska have engaged in apocalyptic paternalism for the past 40 years or more (Look it up). This culminates in the abstract removal of one of life’s greatest arts, by actively suppressing any form of laughter as they attempt to eliminate all traces of the once upon a time intangible hormone called ‘a sense of humour’, simply because it is deemed offensive to someone somewhere; known or unknown, close by or maybe 50,000 light years away, or even dead. ‘They’ have near succeeded too, judging by the number of trolls out there.

Clarkson’s antics, hype or real has started a colossal world opinion war which could be the obtuse catalyst for a physical revolution. The BBC chocolate box boss says with naïve brainwashed, privileged but amateur confidence; ‘No individual is bigger than the show’. Oh really sir and on which piece of Marxist Fabian parchment does it support that? In this case Mr. Luvvie might consider calling his favourite chiropractor to help him extract his head from behind his belly button. And if Jonofon Roff gets the job it would be a war crime.

It is strikingly obvious; UK and Europe in particular are a mess with a massive volcano about to erupt, as missionary statements commanded by this now echelon of society are being challenged. Forcibly by law ‘they’ have dictated speech content using a viral language called ‘clichéd rhetoric’ in response to anyone who starts a sentence with the words; ‘I think’.
Despite the plethora of peroxide blondes on Fox News never having wanted to master ‘clichéd Rhetoric’, the unearthly profusion of closet members at the BBC are extremely fluent in it. Ask yourself, why did Esperanto fail? Because words like ‘foreign’ (eksterlandaj) and ‘obese’ (graso bastardo) were just too long

The echelon, ‘they’ have successfully been forcing equalization and drabness upon us, even degrading exam standards so as not to offend the dopey. With droves of ‘clichéd Rhetoric’ speakers in tow; mouthpieces like the BBC and newspapers such as The Guardian, Independent, Huffington Post and a good few more, literally ‘speak for us all’. Megalomaniac egos overpower reason, with a desire to neutralize the voter base, in other words make us all totally indistinguishable from each other. You know the rules; do not profile at a crime scene or airport. Vanquish all thoughts that this person might be different because they have a beard or wear tribal like clothes and enforce colour blindness on everyone. Damn Clarkson.

Here’s a simple tip to detect ‘they’ when being subliminally nobbled. Every time you listen to a radio advertising message, promotion, current affairs presenters and now so-called entertainers, be conscious of the voice and demeanour. It is almost like it is one voice or clone of for all now; this incessant sickly, girly sing song replica of that BBC pop channel implant, spewing out insincere happiness. The liberally infected ‘Pronoun Virus’ ever present as she hangs words at the end of every sentence. Je suis all ‘WE’. If not her, then it is an equally effeminate male (we think) with a lisp, doing much the same. The Star Gate is somewhere in the Meteorological Office. Whoops! Severe Clarkson moment. Doctor!!! Plus, clock the clothes, particularly the BBC presenters. The female species so often wear vibrant blue or bright yellow and is as significant as a bird mating ritual. Blokes removing ties would be just too much for now, so wear pink for the same reason and red for allegiance. They even have the gall to wear arm bands if Bono from U2, Paul McCartney or Bob ‘Comfortably Numb’ Geldof strike up a cause. It is all so incestuous and closed shop. Clarkson has never been part of that, having slipped through the corridors years ago and like double jeopardy managed to hang on, but it was never going to be easy.